lips like desire, hearts like home
by Liberty Love and Roses
Summary: because street lights, racing cars and chests rising and falling in tandem is their way of saying, "I love you." — Kei x Momoka
1. Chapter 1: liquor and curry

**Hey, guys! I was looking through the Last Game category recently and realised that there were no Kei x Momoka fanfics and I decided that I just had to write one! **

**I tried something a little different with my writing and tried to go for a more mundane, slice-of-life approach, so I'm not too sure how it's turned out.**

**Characters might be a little bit OC, but I don't think they deviate that much.**

**Anywho, I'm not sure if people really check out Last Game fanfics often, so if you happen upon this, please leave a review!**

**Rated T for cursing.**

* * *

_lips like desire, hearts like home_

_._

_._

_._

_because street lights, racing cars and chests rising and falling in tandem is their way of saying, "I love you." — Kei x Momoka_

* * *

_**Chapter 1: liquor and curry**_

* * *

Kei hums a disinterested affirmative into his phone as he sautés the vegetables his father sent over the day before.

He spares a glance at the boxes stockpiled in the corner and sighs (_damn that old man). _Although Kei _does_ appreciate all the food his family sends over (because despite his fervid attempts to adopt the city lifestyle and abandon his bumpkin ways, even he isn't exempt from homesickness), his dad by nature tends to be slighty overzealous and Kei, as a result, is often left with a severe influx of produce that he simply has no space for.

Still, he doesn't want the food to go to waste, so he decides that he'll need to give some to Mikoto later, before they start going bad (and hell if he's gonna try and finish everything before that point).

And, while he's at it, he might as well abuse the opportunity to tease Yanagi (even if it's about something as slight as sharing vegetables with his girlfriend— but knowing Yanagi, he'll just blow it out proportion anyways, and Kei freely admits that a jealous Yanagi is his guilty pleasure).

He can already feel the satisfaction.

(And maybe, part of his satisfaction in seeing Yanagi in distress attributes to him dating the girl that Kei is kind of, sort of, still not over.)

"Liar!" Momoka whines, syllables slurring together. "You're not listening at all!"

"You're drunk," Kei accuses, turning off the heat and reaching into the cupboard for a plate, refraining a curse as his phone almost falls from where he has it balanced between his ear and shoulder.

"So what if I am?" She hiccups from the other end of the phone.

"Go bother someone else."

"No." Momoka is pouting, probably. Kei can just _see_ it; he is so accustomed to being at the receiving end of her woes that the image inserts itself naturally into his head (if only he could remember the things that actually mattered).

She sighs through the other end before following it up with —dare he speculate— an almost _rebellious_ huff— but Kei promptly stomps away the embers of suspicion and laughs because _surely_, she wouldn't—

His attention snaps to the abrupt and aggressive pounding of his door, the creaks and cries of brittle wood, the tinkling and trembling of his glassware— and Kei stops laughing.

He grimaces. She can't _possibly_—?

"Heyyy, I'm in front of your home. Open the door."

—_Of course _she is. Kei heaves out a groan and slaps his palm to his forehead.

Normally, Kei would merely spare a glance at the door, shrug, and ignore her.

And the idea is tempting, attractive, and _almost_ plausible— but alas, a drunken Momoka is anything _but_ normal. That girl always intoxicates herself to the point that she can't regulate her strength, and if left to her own devices, she would undoubtedly harass his poor door to oblivion.

And thus, Kei is compelled to grant her entry into his collapsing, crumbling, cluttered abode.

"I'm letting you in, I'm _letting you in_," Kei hisses, trudging over to the entrance after setting the food on the table. "Stop knocking before I change my mind."

He hangs up and, with another sigh, opens the door.

Her cheeks are tinted pink from the winter air, and because the goddamn moron is so busy relishing in her juvenile victory (how he wants to slam the door in her face just to watch her stupid grin dissipate), Kei has to pull Momoka in by the arm so that the night chills don't invade his home and sabotage the warmth that he has tried so _painfully_ hard to conserve (because if Momoka isn't going to the death of him, then his heating expenses will be).

Her haughty smile doesn't leave her face, and she still has a can of beer in her hand. She downs the remainder of it, chucks it towards the closest corner (much to Kei's dismay— "There is literally a bin _right there_!")—

—and scours his cupboards for more liquor.

"Oh, _hell no_." Grimacing, Kei sprints to where Momoka is and slams all the cupboards shut, but by the time he's done, she's already moved ahead, wreaking havoc on every further compartment in his kitchen. But of course, it's Momoka, and so she doesn't stop there; she stumbles over to his bedroom and begins to terrorise his storage units there, despite all of Kei's vehement protests.

Ten minutes pass before he finally manages to catch her, lightly panting and huffing as he nudges her towards his couch— but the damage is already done. There are clothes splayed all over the floor where Momoka had scoured through his drawers for secret stashes of alcohol, random ornaments cluttered over the table, and books displaced from where had so dedicatedly organised them into his bookshelf (his heart aches at the sight).

_Oh_, when she's sober, he is going to _kill_ her. Brutally. He's already mentally conjured up a list of methods.

"Sit over here and wait," he says, nearly collapsing from the sheer relief that he's managed to somehow detain her (trying to catch Momoka is an insanely arduous task, he attempts to justify when he feels an oncoming wave of shame). He looks over at the food, before turning back to her. "You should probably eat— I'll serve you something."

"Huh?" Her face scrunches up and she jolts up, stabbing his chest with her finger. "Don't wanna. Why do I have to listen to you?"

He scoffs, swatting her hand away. "Oh, I don't know— maybe because you just barged into my home, and, you know, messed it up?"

Momoka gasps at the accusation. "You—" She hiccups, and trips over her ankles, falling with a heavy thump onto the floor. "Oof!" She hiccups again. "You_invited_meeee."

"I did not," he snaps, hoisting her back up, his nose wrinkled in disdain. "Oh god, you are _wasted_."

"On a guy like you? When it's Christmas? I veryyy strongthly agree," she retorts, slumping onto the couch, ankle boots kicked aside in a clutter alongside her coat and scarf on his rug. Kei begins to make a snide remark on "strongthly", but pauses when Momoka exclaims, "Fuck, I'm going to be sick."

His head snaps towards her. "You wouldn't dare. I will physically make you clean this place up for the next three weeks _if you even gag_."

She snorts incredulously, the skin on her forehead ruched as her eyebrows thread together. "You—" Momoka attempts to stab his stomach with a finger, but with her perception askew, she ends up scratching the edge of his waist (he screeches out a list of curses, but Momoka effectively ignores it). "—You are _such_ a good friend," she drawls.

"I thought we already previously established our _lack_ of friendship?"

"Shaddup. Don't be a smartass."

"Then don't arrive at my doorstep fucking drunk."

"You should be _honoured_ that you get to spend Christmas with a girl as pretty as me."

He snorts. "Oh, please; even I'm not that desperate.

"Oy." She looks over to the kitchen, and her eyes sparkle. "Curry," Momoka says, folding her arms and leaning further against the couch.

"I thought you didn't want—"

"Curry!"

"_I'm getting it_," he spits back.

Though, by the time he comes back, she's already passed out, softly snoring and arms sprawled. Kei groans.

"Fuck this," he mutters, slamming the plate down with a loud clink on the table, eying her for a potential reaction. Nothing. "I'm gonna eat this myself, you know."

Still nothing. He sighs, stalking over to his cupboard to reach for a blanket before returning to Momoka and pulling it over her. She snuggles into it almost instantly, mumbling incoherently about curry and beer and how "the bumpkin has no taste"— the latter of which prompts Kei to tug the blanket away from her (unsuccessfully and he curses her grip).

But although Kei is ultimately pissed, in the end he doesn't eat the share he laid out for her—like he had threatened— instead packing it away and storing it in the fridge for her to eat when she wakes up (undoubtedly at four in the morning, when she'll suddenly start craving for something savoury— Kei knows by experience after having suffered many, many instances of her crashing over at his).

* * *

Momoka blinks slowly, stumbling off the couch and blindly grappling at the table for her phone (ah, damn it, her head hurts like hell).

She turns it on and is instantly startled by the lock screen, jolting up and cursing. Where the fuck is her cute cat pic? Upon closer inspection, she realises it has been replaced by a close-up picture of a neon pink sticky note:

_Curry in the fridge. Heat it up. Wake me up and I will kill you._

Momka releases an incredulous, "Hah!" before trudging her way to the fridge, passing remarks on what a "fucking bastard" Kei is.

She sets the timer on the microwave for two minutes and haphazardly flings the curry in after removing the plastic wrap, taps her foot to its low grumbles as she watches the curry slowly spin inside, checking on the timer every five seconds. She holds her breath as the timer reaches its last ten seconds.

As annoying as Kei is, Momoka is still a little grateful, and so when the timer reaches its last few seconds, Momoka prematurely takes out her curry and resets the microwave to normal. She heaves out a sigh of relief.

Just one second had been left— any longer and the timer would have gone off and woken Kei up. Momoka sighs again, setting her curry down on the table and blindly searching for a fork.

Much to Momoka's chagrin, he has an abundance of chopsticks (she can almost imagine his parents insisting on maintaining cultural integrity and Kei acquiescing) meticulously organised into the kitchen drawer, and after a minute of carelessly shoving everything to the side, she breaks into a grin when she finally finds the rare utensil stashed at the very back.

And then she looks back at the mess she made, shrugs, and hastily pushes the drawer shut (Kei will _kill_ her in the morning, she can tell).

Momoka scrunches her face after a few bites and curses.

(Why the hell is he a better cook than her?)

* * *

It's Sunday morning and Kei jolts awake to the abrupt, intrusive sound of a... siren, maybe? It sounds like a siren. He assumes it will pass (perhaps it's an ambulance or something) and so he sinks back into his pillow. Ten seconds pass and the noise persists. Kei grimly attributes it to the next most probable source— his phone— and blindly fumbles for the device beneath his pillow to turn the damn alarm off.

Except, it doesn't seem to be beneath his pillow.

Kei shoots up, ears ringing from the incessant blaring, and groggily looks around him— there: his phone, on his desk on the far end of his room (why?— _How_?) and he tumbles out of bed, tripping over his duvet as he sprints to the phone, his limbs despairingly uncoordinated and heavy, before his fingers slip over the buttons in a messy attempt at trying to silence it as quickly as possible.

He sighs in relief when he succeeds, tousling his hair and trudging his way back to bed, relishing in the warmth of his duvet until he suddenly comes to three realisations and his eyes snap open: first, it's Sunday and he shouldn't have an alarm set; second, the time set for the alarm is absolutely absurd— seventeen past seven— and the sun has barely risen; and third, his lock screen background is different.

Kei scrutinises the background, mind fuzzy and vision still trippy, and he comes to an obvious conclusion: Momoka.

His lockscreen is now a neon pink sticky note, with the words "the food was shit" scribbled in her near-illegible penmanship (large, loopy letters joined by sloppy lines that Kei could recognise anywhere at this point) and a smily face that seemingly mocked him.

Kei groans, but then he laughs, partially scornful, partially disbelieving and partially amused.

He can't go back to sleep _now_, not anymore.

(And honestly, he's not as mad at her as he should be.)

* * *

Momoka's phone vibrates against her hip. She whips it out of her pocket and props her elbow on her crossed leg, humming in curiosity as she scrolls through her notifications.

_Tasteless_ _Bumpkin _flashes across her screen a second time. She slides open the message.

_Today, 07:32_

_**Bitch**_

She snorts and the train rolls forward, grumbling along the rails. Momoka taps away at the screen, a grin playing on her lips.

_07:34 **Karma always is :p**_

* * *

**Welpy woo, that's the end of this chapter. I'm not sure if anyone reads Last Game fics anymore, but if you do stumble upon this, please review!**

**I'll be updating the next chapter sooner or later.**

**Once again, please review!**

_~Adieu!_

_X's and O's,_

_Liberty_


	2. Chapter 2: injuries

**New chapter, guys! Can you believe that I actually updated? This is just another fairly chill chapter (all of them will be, since it's**** SOL).**

**Onto reviews:**

**_Miss Karo_: **_Thanks! I'm still devastated my fic is the only MomoKei there is (last I checked), since I rarely find any enjoyment from reading my own stuff haha. For now, I am inspired, and I also hope that it will actually last this time._

_**Guest (1)**: I'm glad my fic helped you! 9 hours of studying would kill me. I hope your exams (I assume that's what you're studying for) went well!_

_**D.O.F**: I am a huge fan of this ship, and yeah, I'll be damned if I don't get it too. So here you are! I hope you enjoy this chapter._

_**Guest (2)**: Thanksss._

* * *

_lips like desire; hearts like_ _home_

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**Chapter 2: injuries**

* * *

New Year's is arguably worse than Christmas, Kei thinks, as Momoka's arms hang off his shoulders and she flails her legs, her heel ever so often driving into the back of his knee and causing him to stop and wince.

"I promise you," he seethes, turning his head back to give her a sideways glare, "if you don't stop moving, I _will_ drop you into the next puddle we pass."

"What? You wouldn't dare." Momoka accidentally smacks his eyes as she twists his head back around to face forwards.

He huffs and tries to shake off her grip. "Wanna bet?" he mutters, stopping near a large puddle by the side of the pavement. Kei lets go of her legs, leaning back slightly and letting gravity do its work.

"No! Nonono_no_! _Kei!_" Momoka shrieks, wrapping her elbows around his neck and crossing her legs desperately around his torso as she feels herself slip. "Do you know how much this dress costs? You're paying if it gets ruined!"

Kei rolls his eyes and starts prying off her arms.

Momoka's eyes widen and she clings tighter, her voice shrill. "_Kei_! — You fucking bumpkin, I swear I'll kill— wait, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that! Kei, stop! Fuck, I'm falling— Kei, I'm _falling_!"

"Jesus Christ, calm down!" He laughs (which Momoka is tempted to kick him for), and he hoists her back up. "I wouldn't have let you fall anyways, stupid. You're hurt. Even I don't hate you enough to do that to you."

Momoka scoffs, relaxing against him once again, her arms loosening from around his neck. "Don't get all soft on me, city-boy-wannabe. It's making me cringe."

Kei quirks a brow. "So you'd rather I drop you."

"Just keep walking."

Kei rolls his eyes, but complies.

A stream of cars line the roads— humming engines and streaks of lights, speeding past them like meteors. Momoka bristles when she meets the eyes of a few curious drivers (some of which she recognises, much to her chagrin). She cringes, clears her throat.

"It's kind of embarrassing to be piggybacked in public," she murmurs into his ear, her cheeks flushed.

His brows knit together as he wryly retorts, "It was either this or being princess-carried." Kei pauses, and a smirk develops across his visage as he angles his head to catch a glimpse of her. "There's still time to change your mind, you know," he teases.

Momoka's face crumples and she smacks the crown of Kei's head. "Just. Keep. Walking."

* * *

"Get down for a minute," Kei grumbles, stopping at a park bench. Disgruntled, Momoka awkwardly slides off his back, one hand gripping Kei's shoulder for support as she stumbles onto the bench.

The tension in his back dissipates almost instantly and Kei breaks out into a grin. "_Freedom_," he breathes out, stretching his arms over his head before he slumps down next to her.

Momoka's brows furrow and she punches his arm. "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

"Whoa!" Kei swerves away, only barely avoiding her fist. She goes in for a second attempt and Kei ducks. "Argh! Ye were jus' gettin' a li'l heavy, that's all!"

He gasps when he realises he's accidentally let his dialect slip, and his gaze flits over to Momoka as he dreads her incoming teasing. Except—

"You're just weak!" she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest as she redirects her focus to a nearby tree, her cheeks flushed red.

He blinks in surprise, and the dread mellows in his stomach.

Momoka barely even looks at him for the next five minutes, and when the slight ache in back finally fades, Kei grimaces in realisation— he had accidentally, _carelessly_ remarked on one of her biggest insecurities, and she's upset (_rightfully so_, he thinks).

With a scornful sigh, he wordlessly crouches down in front of her and gestures for her to mount his back.

"I'll just walk myself," Momoka says haughtily, peering over at him from the corner of her eye. She attempts to get up, perhaps a bit too abruptly— a sharp pain shoots through her ankle and wincing, she collapses back onto the bench and scowls.

Kei tries again. "Just get on my back, Momoka."

She scoffs, raising her foot to her lap and massaging her ankle. "I thought I was too heavy for you." She grimaces, and Kei doesn't think it's because of the pain.

"You're not," he reassures her. Momoka quirks a brow. "I was just being a prick. I'm sorry."

"Really?"

Kei nods. "Really."

"Well," Momoka says, a cadence of triumph in her voice as she hops onto his back with her nude pumps dangling from her hand, "I'm glad we agree."

"So," Kei says, standing up and propping her up a little higher, "am I forgiven?"

Momoka ponders for a moment before replying, with a supposed nonchalance, "I'll decide tomorrow."

* * *

The street lights cast a feeble amber glow on his chestnut hair, and Momoka, losing any potential amusement she had initially procured from when Kei acquiesced to carrying her home, runs her fingers through his hair and tries to make mini braids (unsuccessfully, because, in the end, his hair is simply just too short).

"Your hair feels awful," she lies, trying to provoke him just a bit (she's a little petty, she admits it, but she can't help wanting some form of vengeance for the jab he made at her weight earlier). "Do you even take care of it? It's so rough."

Kei continues walking, indifferent. "No, it's not," he says.

She's almost taken aback by how unbothered he is, by how confident he is in his fucking _haircare, _but then Momoka pauses and remembers all the silly fashion magazines on his table and their stupid little tips and tricks. She remembers how he used to follow them religiously in his quest to become the perfect embodiment of a city boy, and she remembers distinctly the "_five secrets to perfect, sexy hair_"— and now his confidence is almost laughably _sad_.

"No," she agrees, voice dripping with a hybrid of pity and amusement, "it's not."

And, much to Momoka's delight, _this_ is what flusters Kei; his ears are painted a vibrant red as he whips his head around as far as his neck allows to match her gaze and she snorts because he knows that she _knows._

"Shaddup."

"I haven't said—"

"Don' ye even think 'bout it!" he snaps, turning his head back around and walking slightly faster.

Out of sheer pity, Momoka decides not to comment on his dialect this time (but Kei realises his mistake a moment later and exclaims, "Gosh darn-it!" and Momoka just can't contain her laughter anymore).

* * *

"Your ankles were already hurting in the first place," Kei chides as he places her down on her couch and gives her a wry look, waving her pumps in front of her, "so why d'you have to go and wear these? It's like you were begging for a death wish."

"For God's sake, Kei, if I knew you were gonna whine so much about taking me home, I would've just agreed to letting Yanagi-_senpai_ drop me off."

"You're the one who dragged me into doing this!" Kei opens one of her cupboards, scouring for a first-aid kit. He pauses, glances at her from over his shoulder. "Why _didn't_ you agree?"

Momoka pauses, eyes slanting into an immediate glower of regret. "You know why."

"I don't think I do," he lies, crouching down with a soft grunt to check the bottom shelves.

"You absolute bastard."

He shoots her a coy grin. "Tell me why, Momoka."

She slouches back with a groan of defeat. "He's only just come back from America," Momoka finally admits, reaching for one of her decorative cushions, "and he's only staying for a week. You know what he's like. He'd probably prefer spending most of that time with Kujou-_senpai_, and I didn't want to be the one taking that away from him."

Kei hums in amusement. "Even though you like picking on Mikoto-_senpai_ so much?"

Momoka nods.

"Even though you still like him?"

Her voice goes quiet, and he almost doesn't hear her. "It's _because_ I still like him."

His brows furrow. "Momo—"

"Anyways," she intercepts, sharply turning her head to face him, "what's taking you so long?"

"I can't find the kit!" he exclaims in his defence, closing the cupboard.

"That's because you're looking in wrong place, genius." Momoka shakes her head and huffs, pointing towards the kitchen. "It's in the cabinet over there."

"Which one? There's like ten here!"

"The second one from the left!"

"Ah, I got it." Kei shakes the little box in triumph as he walks over to her and Momoka rolls her eyes, but nods in acknowledgement. He sits down on the opposite end of her couch and eyes her expectantly. He taps his knees. "Foot."

Momoka's nose wrinkles. "I am not putting my foot on your lap."

"I literally carried you home and this is what bothers you?"

They battle it out in silence, but Momoka eventually acquiesces, placing her foot on his knees (somehow, she feels like she's constantly losing today, and she makes a mental note to eventually turn the tables on him).

"We're gonna take you to see a doctor tomorrow," Kei says, wrapping a bandage around her ankle. "It'll be bad if it's a sprain—"

"Wait, you're going with me?" Momoka asks, jolting up. "I'll just take a taxi or something."

Kei glares at her. "You'll still need someone to help you out the house."

"But—"

"And it's easier if I do it, since I'm already here."

"I guess," she mutters, leaning back.

She sighs heavily, and hums to fill in the silence as Kei continues to fiddle with the bandages.

A few minutes pass, and Kei asks, his voice low, "Did you wear them for Yanagi-_senpai_?"

Momoka's brows raise in surprise, but she hums in confirmation, an almost scornful look in her eyes. "Is it bad that I still want to look good for him?"

Kei pauses, shakes his head. "No," he says, "it's not."

And they lapse into a moment of silent communion, heartaches and frustrations ripe and swelling between them. Kei grimaces in understanding, because he feels the same way she does— both helplessly entangled in a web of feelings that simply don't belong anymore, that are _wrong_, but neither know how to claw themselves out.

Momoka promised herself she wouldn't cry over it anymore, that she would get over him because she's Momoka: she's gorgeous and gifted and there will always be others falling at her feet. She tries not to cry, but a choked gasp escapes her and the tears just fall.

Kei jolts his head up in surprise, mouth agape.

"Sorry," Momoka says, brushing away the tears, her brows furrowed. "I wasn't meant to cry, it's just— argh, how long has it even been since they started dating? Almost a year, maybe— but I still can't get over him, and— you know, it's just so frustrating and I can't help it—"

"It's fine," he interrupts, head hung low and his voice quiet, solemn. "I get it."

They don't really talk for the rest of the night. After Kei supports her to her room, he collapses on the couch and just tries to sleep the ache away.

(But that night, he dreams of what could have been, if only she had said yes.)

* * *

"You know," Momoka whispers to him, arms folded as she leans back in her chair, waiting to be called in, "he said that I looked nice."

"Who?" Kei asks, startled by the disruption in the silence, returning one of the picked up magazines and taking out a new one from the rack beside him. Momoka raises her eyebrows, her gaze heavy with expectation and impatience, and Kei quickly registers the situation. "Ah, you mean Yanagi-_senpai_?"

Momoka nods, a soft smile on her lips.

Kei grins, nudging her side. "You know it's hopeless, right?" he jokes, casting aside the second magazine and leaning back into his chair, propping his head against his elbows.

"For the both of us," she inputs with a heavy sigh, nodding in agreement.

"For the both of us," he affirms.

"But we're working on it."

"Yup, we're working on it."

"And so I was thinking—" Momoka turns to face him. Kei gives her a side-glance, humming for her to continue, and she grins — "that we should go to a mixer."

"Huh?"

"A mixer," she reiterates. "My friend's hosting one. We should go."

Kei snorts, a smugness creeping onto his visage.

"What?" Momoka's brow twitches as he chuckles to himself. "Your face is pissing me off. Fix it."

"It's nothing," he laughs out, smirking. "I just forgot you had friends. But then again, they don't know what you're really like, do they?"

"Hey, ass-hat, I'm not the only one pretending to be someone I'm not," she retorts, smacking him over the head. She clears her throat. "Anyways, mixer: go or no go?"

He rubs his head (she hits _hard_), directing a scowl at her as he pauses to consider.

"Yeah, okay," Kei finally says, nodding slightly, "I'll go."

She grins. "Glad to hear it."

* * *

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be, oh, _so_ fragile, you sure hit like a beast."

"I'd watch your mouth, bumpkin. I _am_ fragile— if anyone were a beast, it'd be Kujou-_senpai. _And I'm nothing like her."

Kei pauses, tousles his hair, smiles. "To be fair," he says, chuckling softly, "I don't think there's ever going to be _anybody_ like her."

Momoka watches his mechanical grin, his empty eyes, and she stops walking.

Kei stops too, puzzled. "Momoka?"

"There will be," she replies. The wind whips her hair behind her, and the sunset as her backdrop makes her eyes seem as though they are on fire.

Kei shifts awkwardly, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Er, I mean, she's like a different breed of eccentric, so I doubt—"

"That's not what I meant," she interrupts, pointing her crutch at him. "Your pessimism be damned, because _there will be_, for the both of us."

Momoka hobbles past him, shoots him a grin and declares again, proudly, defiantly, "There will be!"

Kei stares at her, bewildered. "You've gone mad, haven't you."

* * *

**That's me! I hope y'all enjoyed this. I'll update again soon, hopefully, but I'm quite busy nowadays. Nonetheless, I'll try my best! **

**Please review! I'll probably edit this chapter around a bit as the year goes, but nothing major.**

_~Adieu!_

_X's and O's, _

_Liberty,_


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